Tuesday, 31 July 2012

I need to tell you about the rest of this book. At the time JFK was killed there was an executive logjam, as bills were piled up to prevent a civil rights bill from passing - which LBJ had warned JFK about. JFK had had the eloquence and promise on this, but LBJ, despite the "taint of magnolias" would now have to be the one to deliver on it. On the plane, with JFK's body and LBJ on it, LBJ now had to make those decisions. And when Bobby Kennedy met the plane he ran past LBJ, so as not to have to recognise him as President.

The Kennedy administration had, in October 1963, recommended stepping up the training of the Vietnamese army, so that American military personnel could be withdrawn, and assessed that this could be done by late 1965. Robert McNamara had said, "We need to get out of Vietnam, and this is a way of doing it". But then there was a coup in South Vietnam, and the National Security Action Memorandum (NSAM) was contradictory in its message: it retained the withdrawal pledge, but its soundbite was that the Vietnam conflict was a war against communism, and a war that had to be won, and that it remained "the central objective of the United States isn South Vietnam, to assist the people and government to win".

LBJ was, you could say, populist, or maybe foolhardy, telling Martin Luther King he would "support them all" - Kennedy's policies, which MLK had described as "great... p;regressive". LBJ told liberals he was going to reform the system, and conservatives that he was going to preserve it as it was. A great political line he gave to a state governor whose support he needed: "You came to see me when I was sick. I don't forget that. Now you let me know if there's anything I need to know out there. I'm going to depend on you." While JFK's body was still in the East Room, on the Saturday after he was killed, Arthur Schlesinger, a dyed-in-the-wool liberal, hosted a restaurant lunch, in a Washington restaurant with senior economists among others, to discuss the possibility of denying LBJ the nomination at the 1964 Democratic Convention, by running a ticket of Robert Kennedy and Hubert Humphrey. So that is what LBJ was up against.

LBJ had an interesting and quite compelling use of language. He referred, on the night of JFK's funeral, to Jackie "holding his skull in her lap" - Caro calls him a great storyteller, and he is right to do so.

In the illustrations to the book, photographs mostly, all the politicians look overweight, unhealthy and tired. LBJ,although older than many, towards the end of this book, looks relatively fresh. Only RFK, in those pictures, is good-looking.

When lBJ made his inaugural address it had to be typed in large type Because LBJ was in his late fifties, and most people that age need glasses to read. He started, "All I have, I would have given gladly not to be standing here today". And almost straight in after that, urging that "Civil rights be written in the books of law". The southern senators sat silent. Previous Majority Leader Reston had written, "President Kennedy had a way of seeing all sides of a question. President Johnson has a way of concentrating on his own side of a question." Johnson had a gift for political phrasemaking: To Republicans: "I am the only President you have: If you would have me fail, then you fail, for this country fails."

There is more in this book, and it is a stupendous insight into a brilliant politician, and into the exercise of power.

I bought my mother a Kindle. And she likes it, and reads on it. But she has no Amazon account, and refuses to go on line (mysterious) so the Kindle is still mine. Upside of that: she can read books I already own. Downside: I live in France, my brother lives in the US, my mother lives in the UK. Neither my brother nor I has a payment card with a UK billing address, I do not have a US one, and he does not have a French one. You can see what's coming, can't you? I am only allowed to shop on amazon.fr or amazon.com, and am not allowed to buy digital products from the latter. My brother is not allowed to buy digital products from the former. Neither of us can do so from amazon.co.uk. So the only way we have found for him to get my mother a Kindle book is for him to send me a gift certificate, which I can use to buy myself a (physical) product from amazon.com, in compensation for ME buying mother the book. Which is from him. And in fact I have to buy it for myself and put it on her Kindle. There may be something I am not getting here. Maybe. Whatever happened to globalisation? I was all in favour of that, and am still waiting for it to happen.

Sunday, 29 July 2012

Here is his latest, and I was pleased to pre-order it, had been a bit Kindle-focused so took a while to get round to it, as it was in hardback. Anyway, have now read it, and frankly was disappointed. He is such a great story teller, and here was not really telling much of a story at all. OK, here is a chap in Vienna, psychoanalysis blah blah, First World War blah blah, affair with strange girl blah blah, so what blah blah. Nice enough writing, but his writing is not so nice as to excuse the fact that there is no real story there. The actual plot, such as it is, is made so obscure and opaque (who is Andromeda?) (what happened on Hampstead Heath?) - oh look there's a Zeppelin! that interest is lost quite quickly. Profound gloom. There are not many writers I pre-order. Maybe I'll leave it a bit and have another look.

Friday, 27 July 2012

ringing for the Olympics this morning. That made me sad. I shall be watching the opening ceremony tonight, though probably not all of it. I really do not understand the endless negativity about it from Brits I have heard. Isn't it good to showcase London? Isn't it good that many thousands of people are being employed in east London for this event? Isn't it good, just after a British sporting hero has won a world-renowned title, the first Brit ever to do so, that top-class British athletes will be performing to the world, on their home ground? Apparently not. Someone said to me the other day that the Olympics were crap because they had enabled developers to come in and build luxury apartments that ordinary east London people could not afford to live in. Well, so they undoubtedly have - building on land that wasn't being used for all that much. And if there were no Games then those same developers would have been all ready and willing to build decent low-cost housing with affordable rents for those ordinary people to live in, wouldn't they? Wouldn't they?

the full list of charges following Operation Weeting on phone hacking is handily produced for us by Guido. But something is missing. The individuals or groups of individuals whose phones were allegedly hacked are listed, but Mr Salter's name is not there! And he identified himself as a target just a few short weeks ago, as we read in the Reading Chronicle (so it must be true)! What can have gone wrong? There must be a separate operation going on just in respect of the hacking of Salter's phone, don't you think? Which will report in due course and will result in serious criminal charges. Bound to happen. Do I detect a note of scepticism in your resonse, dear reader? Careful now. Because if you are right, and there is no police operation going on in respect of the alleged hacking of Salter's phone, then Salter was either lying or deluded when he said he had been a target of News International, and that of course cannot be the case. Can it? And the Chronicle published a story which was a lie, and if they did not know then that it was a lie they do now. So they'll publish a retraction, won't they? Won't they? *sound of tumbleweed*

Monday, 23 July 2012

M. Hollande, the President of the French Republic, speaking on the 70th anniversary of the round-up of 13,000 Jews from Paris and its suburbs, to die in the camps, that is. The answer is, no, he did not. He said this:

So, he acknowledged the resonsibility of "France" and not that of the Vichy government, for a part of the Holocaust, and also paid a kind of tribute to Jacques Chirac*, the first to acknowledge the responsibility of "France", on the same anniversary in 1995. The atrocity is known as "Vel d'Hiv" after its location, the former Velodrome d'Hiver (Winter Velodrome) in Paris - no French person will speak or write a word in full if it can be abbreviated.

Saturday, 21 July 2012

the fourth in Caro's masterly series on the years of Lyndon Johnson, a character I thought did not much interest me until I started reading these books a few years ago. This one is perhaps the most readable of the four (he tells us there is another in preparation) and covers a very short period, that of the transition from Kennedy to Johnson and the early part of Johnson's Presidency. It is informed by LBJ's hatred of Robert Kennedy, something which was known about in political circles at the time but is explored psychologically most interestingly here. And made me wonder how it would have developed later, if RFK had lived. "To watch Lyndon Johnson during the transition is to see political genius in action" - and so it was. I was too young at the time to understand, but fairly un-political people in the UK were agog with interest in American politics, as they have almost never been since - I remember the adult conversations around me. Johnson's background - his father going broke, and his family having to walk past shops that would no longer give them credit - made him terrified of failure. So he said he wouldn't run for the 1960 presidential nomination - because if he didn't run, he couldn't fail. And then he changed his mind. Politics was no stranger to fraud,then as now - in Johnson's 1948 Texas Senate race, very late, after polls had closed, 200 new votes were found for Johnson. All had written their names in the same ink and the same handwriting, and had voted in alphabetical order. The selection by JFK of LBJ as running mate caused a storm among northern liberals, but one journalist, Doris Fleeson, had it right when she wrote that the choice was "a decision to win the election". There is a parallel with the UK and recent times too obvious to go into here.

During JFK's brief Presidency LBJ kept silent, mostly, as vice-presidents must. He was also routinely humiliated and sneered at. LBJ, the briefer and leaker, did none of this during the Kennedy years. He never criticised the President, and would not allow anyone else to do so in his hearing. The Kennedys and their acolytes laughed at LBJ's clothes, his accent and his manners, and LBJ knew they were doing it. We learn that it was LBJ who told the media that the Cuban missile crisis had erupted. Johnson's remark on what to do about it was, "All I know is that when I was a boy in Texas, and you were walking along the road when a rattlesnake reared up ready to strike, the only thing to do was take a stick and chop its head off." We know of course that that is not what happened in 1962.

A great speech LBJ made, and which has been forgotten until now, is worth quoting from: "One hundred years ago, the slave was freed ... one hundred years later, the Negro remains in bondage to the color of his skin. The Negro today asks justice. We do not answer him - we do not answer those who lie beneath this soil - when we reply to the Negro by asking, 'Patience' ... to ask for patience from the Negro is to ask him to give more of what he has already given enough ...the Negro says, 'Now'. Others say 'Never'. The voice of responsible Americans - the voices of those who died here and the great man (Lincoln) who spoke here - their voice says, 'Together'. There is no other way."

A big story which might have destroyed LBJ, to do with a man named Bobby Baker, an associate who later went to prison, and a possible source of LBJ's wealth, was brewing in November 1963. In those days of much slower-boiling news stories it was building up as November went on. The headlines on 22 November 1963 were full of LBJ's waning star, and that he was being snubbed by the President's people.

For chapters on end Jackie seems to be wearing the bloodstained pink suit - but a lot was going on, including LBJ being sworn in on board Air Force One. Jackie was drinking a Scotch at the time, we are told. The first one she had ever drunk. And she did not like it. Lady Bird Johnson had a wonderful, dignified, Southern turn of phrase when asked when the Johnsons would be moving into the executive mansion in the White house, "I would to God I could serve Mrs Kennedy's comfort. I can at least serve her convenience."

Thursday, 19 July 2012

apparently (I can't bear to look) the Guardian thinks Tel Aviv is the capital of Israel. The BBC has decided that it will not say what the capital of Israel is. And there is fury and hatred on various comments pages. But the facts are these: the State of Israel was created by the UN. Tel Aviv was the capital of it for approximately the first twelve months of its existence. Israel then declared Jerusalem to be its capital. Which it is. Because every sovereign state has the right to decide what its capital city is. Whatever anyone else might think about the merits or actions of that state. It's not even true that all the embassies are in Tel Aviv. Costa Rica's, for example, is in Jerusalem. El Salvador's was until quite recently. It is stated US policy that the US embassy should be in Jerusalem - although State Department officials have done precisely nothing about moving the embassy there. But hey, haters, let's keep on pretending, hein?

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Last month I wrote to Tom Watson MP, following the publication of a "story" in the Reading Chronicle which made me aware that he had submitted evidence to the Leveson Inquiry which referred to me by name, and which was untrue. I sent the letter by registered mail. I have not received a reply. The text is below:

Tom Watson MP
House of Commons
London W1A 0AA

Dear Tom Watson

Leveson Inquiry

I refer to the evidence uploaded to the Leveson Inquiry website on 22 May 2012, and specifically to the part of that evidence submitted to you by Martin Salter and which referred to me by name (see below).

"After a turbulent relationship with her local party my neighbouring MP Jane Griffiths was eventually deselected on 22nd February 2004. The following Sunday she gave an angry interview to the Mail on Sunday and tried to smear me and others in a series of wholly false and ridiculous allegations. My solicitors Bindmans managed to have my name removed..."

I have written to the Inquiry (copy enclosed) formally requesting that this part of that evidence be removed from the transcript of the Inquiry, for the reasons that it is both untrue in its reference to myself and irrelevant to the Inquiry. Its irrelevance is in fact confirmed by its author, Martin Salter, in a comment he submitted to a story about the giving of that evidence published in the Reading Chronicle (copy enclosed). In fact it was on having my attention drawn to the Reading Chronicle story that I first became aware of the existence of this evidence submitted to the Inquiry by yourself.

I am formally requesting you to remove the part of the materials submitted to you by Martin Salter which refer to me from your evidence to the Inquiry. I hope you will agree to do this, so that I need not consider any further action.

At no time was I approached by any of the parties or informed that my name was going to be submitted in evidence to the Inquiry. This appears to me to be at the very least discourteous, if not actually in bad faith, the more so as we are former colleagues in the House, but the usual courtesies should surely apply to everyone if they are to be meaningful.

Finally, the Reading Chronicle story quotes Martin Salter as saying that you had approached former MPs for evidence of phone hacking or any other criminal or wrongful behaviour on the part of News International employees. I was not so approached, nor were a number of other former MPs with whom I am in touch. I should be grateful for the names of those you approached, as I think we could have a useful conversation on certain matters. If the names are not to be supplied, an indication of how many former MPs you approached would also be helpful.

I can be contacted as above, and look forward to hearing from you.

Jane Griffiths

At the time of writing this post that evidence submitted by Tom Watson MP has not been withdrawn, and I have received no communication from him. I have now made my own submission to the inquiry, which had not originally been my intention. It is factual.

the delightful Basher McKenzie shares with us here some musings on his favourite theme - violence. Apparently the potholes left in local roads by his neglectful Labour council are giving his "undercarriage" - he also uses the word "bollocks" - a bashing. That's both trivial and more information than any of us needed, Basher. Now, if you've got nothing better to do (we know you can't get a job), why don't you go out and punch a pensioner?

Sunday, 15 July 2012

is the title of a book of essays by Margaret Atwood on science fiction and other literature which is set in worlds not our own. She cites some books, and some writers, of which I know little or nothing, but is always interesting. A writer called McKibben, who wrote a book called "Enough", of which I know nothing other than what Atwood has written about it here, said, apparently, that because a thing has been invented does not mean that you have to use it. "McKibben offers as exempla the atomic bomb; the Japanese samurai rejection of guns; the Chinese abandonment of advanced sea power; and the Amish, who examine each new technology and accept or reject it according to social and spiritual criteria." Atwood approves of what McKibben wants, but ends this chapter with "Perhaps we should leave well enough alone", always a dangerous notion, I feel. Atwood's take on "Nineteen Eighty-Four" is very different from mine. She doesn't even mention the torture, other than the rats, and the rats are not the point. It wasn't the rats, nor was it the threat of them, which broke Winston Smith. I don't think it was even the betrayal of Julia - who betrayed him, too, and went blithely on her way - it was seeing what had been done to others, and that there was no hope, no way out. Atwood sees the final essay on Newspeak, written in plain English, apparently well after the events described in the book, as a message of hope - that the regime did not last, and that the human spirit survives. I hope she is right. I saw it more as a kind of Hays Code adjunct. She says the section at the end of "The Handmaid's Tale", which treats the regime portrayed in the book as an episode in American history, owes much to the Newspeak essay. I am sure she is right, I hadn't noticed the influence at the time, but i remember being hugely relieved that the essay told us that the regime did pass away. To this day I get chills at the notion that a regime like that really could exist - and of course it does, in much of Afghanistan and in parts of the Middle East. Atwood wrote "The Handmaid's Tale" in 1984, or at least it was published then, so perhaps at the time she was not thinking about the politics of the Middle East. but I am, now.

Atwood is wrong in her conclusion to this essay. She says that the 2001 attacks opened up the prospect of two contradictory dystopias, because "state surveillance is back with a vengeance", the other dystopia being open markets, which seems to mean that the communist dream (in China) creates armies of exploited workers to make cheap consumer goods for us all to enjoy. She makes the mistake here of being dismayed about "state surveillance" in "free" places like north America, and of completely ignoring the ideology behind 9/11 and similar - and how can the author of "The Handmaid's Tale" do this? Afghan women? But she can also be very funny. Humans as viewed by aliens, in most science fiction, have a "cavern" or a "prong". Hilarious.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

Emma B. has been occupied with other duties recently, but she is back now to delight us further. In which, fireworks, gussets, an inexplicable phone call, and psychological torture by the Chief Whip.

At the still small point of the
turning world …..there the dance is.

Forty-eight hours after her return from
Westminster and the announcement of the Government reshuffle; she did
not feel like dancing. Nothing had happened in The Sceptre Room to
damage her personally and she had not damaged herself. She had
mislaid neither handbag nor knickers; it had been Heather Lydgate’s
gusset on show to the world and not hers.

She had not disported herself like a
hoyden (those were the days and Ben Bex Oliver should have been
the man).

And yet …..

Turning to Ponia’s Picks; The
Crier’sGuide to the Re-shuffle; she experienced a
stomach twinge from days past; the never forgotten no-nonsense
announcement combined with the chimes of Big Ben, that it was
5pm, Thursday at Westminster – the worst time of the week.

Over the years her PA, Ida, contrived
to arrange the diary so that this spot of time found her at Bill
Committee; Backbench Committee; entertaining constituents or speaking
in the Chamber. Anything to forbid her the office between 4.30
-5.30pm when she would be beyond the control of man or beast.

Five pm Thursday, was the slot when
the Chief Whip’s Assistant, ( deputising for Blind Pew), would
commence the weekly ‘ring-round’; the terrifying summons to ‘make
yourself available’ at a given time to be presented with charges as
yet undisclosed, from accusers yet to be specified. At 5 30 pm,
regardless of whether she or Gissy had been dealt the black spot or
avoided its deadly stain; repairing to the Regular Suite (
Westminster’s Admiral Benbow ) for the purposes of commiseration
or celebration, completed the process.

No – I’m afraid I don’t know -
I suspect she may have pulled up stumps for the day; she was planning
to spend a few hours in the library working on the Corporation Tax…..

No – yes – Tuesday – was that
eleven? Eleven thirty? Right you are! And can I tell her what it’s
about?

No, I see, – of course not –
he’ll tell her himself. Yes, yes, of course. I’ll pass the
message on (replacing receiver).

Well – (rueful smile at MP, by now
the whitest shade of pale; rooting around for cigarette and ‘saucer
- as – ashtray’; the office being a smoke-free zone)

as I expect you gathered, that was
Terrence Gale’s office. He wants to see you on Tuesday.

(phone rings)

Hello – yes it is. Who is that
please? Gissy? Oh yes. Where?

(puts hand over phone). Gissy Wicks
for you – and can you meet her now before the vote, in The Regular
Suite?

But Ida was speaking to thin air. She
had already left.

Ten minutes later, they would be
hunched at a corner table gripping (large) glasses of Sancerre and
grimacing at the Chamber Monitoring Screen beside the bar:

Time for one more I think …
Cornish has only just started to wind up …

Oh – definitely! (Gissy -
lighting up; flicking ash dextrously onto the green Pugin carpet). I
am so thoroughly pissed off about this – now no bloody weekend;
eating fags; throwing up --- and I can’t think what the FUCK it’s
about! And Gale – you know he enjoys this? WANKER!!! Last time,
he kept me waiting outside his office while he chatted to an intern
about his Christmas card list and when I finally got in I was pissing
myself. Almost. And it was that bastard Ralph again! He’d phoned
the Whips’ Office bleating that I’d missed the last four Party
meetings in a row and that two Grove Ward pensioners said I’d been
‘abrasive’ at the ‘coffee ‘n cakes’.

It was reliably and unvaryingly
grotesque; a Whips’ nark was tasked to tip off the press and it
would surface in a Diary to be used by Constituency Party enemies so
the whole miserable cycle would begin again. With a phone call on
Thursday.

Of course, it must have been worse for
Gissy with the backdrop of the Polaris affair. Gale must have
adored making her squirm – although not in the way he had
originally intended.

How loathsome it all was; what a
wretched job in fact and why oh why hadn’t she used her talents on
something else? She could have been an actress; an academic; a
journalist – and of course it was all Paul’s fault because if she
hadn’t met him she would have done all of that, probably ALL
AT ONCE and she was just getting into the mental swing of
coulda been a contender when the phone rang.

She closed the, as yet, unread Crier
and picked up the receiver:

Yes – yes it is. Oh ---hello –
Terrence!

‘Terry’ please! I think we’ve
known each other long enough for that?

After twenty years without so much as
sharing a tension-free tea with the Chief Whip, the idea of venturing
anything as intimate as abbreviated Christian names was unthinkable –
and slightly obscene. ‘Terrence’ felt like a liberty too far;
she was sure that for preference, it would have been ‘Mr Gale’,
if not ‘Sir’ with a curtsey.

She breathed deeply, aware of a hand
tremor.

How truly ridiculous!

She had lost her seat nearly ten years
ago; Macey Cline was the new Fengrove candidate; Gale in role as Tin
Pot General could neither help her nor harm her….

And yet…. (lighting a
half-smoked and therefore serviceable cigarette and smoothing her
skirt)

Yes – ‘Terry’ of course!
(girlish half chuckle) – how can I help you?

There was a slight but unmistakable
pause – Gale knew his power. She conjured him up in his
wood-panelled office; shirt-sleeves rolled; leg looped over chair
arm. Tapping a desk leg with a brogue.

Just wanted to say how VERY nice we
ALL thought it was to see you at Derek’s little party – Edith
mentioned it to Wendy…. now did you get home safely after that
dreadful business with poor Mrs Aspinall? You’ll excuse an old lag
his pastoral duties – once a member of my flock and all that!!!

‘Edith’ …. As if Edith Traynor
was her friend!

She had first met the Prime Minister’s
Official Spokesperson at a Candidates’ Training course circa
1989. They were lying on their backs, flexing and un-flexing their
knees; Head to Head and Toe to Toe…..

The big idea was to equip them with
relaxation techniques to re-charge batteries on the campaign trail
but the session was not relaxing. In fact, it was a detestably
stressful gym-kit contest with comrades like Wendy Kaye channelling
Diana at the Harbour Club and Edith Traynor at the other end
of the spectrum, reprising Sweaty Betty, puffing and blowing
in an orange leotard.

The plump nonentity who stuck like gum
to the trainers of a then unelected and unmarried future Prime
Minister was unrecognisable as the sleek and sinuous aide who had
crafted the persona of Wendy Runcible from the raw and not
obviously promising clay of MsWendy Kaye.

The price that either woman had paid
for Wendy’s tenure at No 10 had long been and would continue to be
– the subject of desultory but consistent speculation.

But Gale’s mention of Traynor was as
deliberate and purposeful as everything that now typified the
Official Spokesperson herself.

They meant business – and business
with her.

And I’m so glad that you managed
to have that little chat with Mike (continued Terrence) Sylvie
– not now!! – Sorry, never a dull moment at No 12 as you know!
Now where were – yes, Dawn Grainger! Finally going - and I can’t
tell you what a relief…very forgetful; voted with the Tories in the
Budget Debate THREE TIMES but what can you do?

Short of contract killing – any
attempt at deselection is just not a runner. The comrades in D West
adore her - of course, that’s to be applauded – dear old Dawn!
But it means that we couldn’t haul her to the knackers – had to
sit tight...

BUT - God’s in his heaven!! She’s
accepted Wendy’s offer of a kick upstairs – I think her son had
something to do with it! He thinks he’ll get the seat! Dream on
Billy!! Ha!! ‘The Other Place’ – our very own nursing home!! I
know that the changes have lowered the average age, but God –
doesn’t it still stink in there – all the widdle pads!! So yes!
– DW is up and YOU ARE THAT WOMAN!

Dorlich – perfect!! I’ve booked
your hotel at Conference; The Berriman as usual; all you have to do
is charm the comrades… It’ll be easy – the line is - YES to
re nationalising everything; republic after the demise of Her Maj;
mega defence cuts with proceeds straight into benefits - and
unions to be consulted on all policies!

And once you’re in, of course you
never said any of it and the idiots who said you did are Tory
MOLES!!!

A response was neither expected nor
requested and the subject was changed.

As Terrence segued with aplomb from the
Election; through Welfare to Poole flaunting humble origins by
staging a photo shoot at the Pound Shop …she flicked her kitchen
blinds. The green wood had cost a fortune in 2001 but was now badly
chipped and should be replaced. Should be, but wouldn’t be because
she couldn’t afford it.

Her glass dining table; achingly trendy
in 1999, was now sporting a hairline crack as was the plaster in the
kitchen and third bedroom. It looked like subsidence but wasn’t.
It was a standard and minor case of outer wall weakening with a
repair tag of £7,000. As £7,000 ( like £700) was out of the
question, there it remained; mimicking subsidence and repelling
potential buyers – along with a basement needing re-tanking at a
very reasonable, but for her, completely prohibitive £16,000…

She couldn’t afford any of it – let
alone the ‘quick lick of paint’ to refurbish the bathroom that
Fran at the Estate Agent considered advisable ‘to net the price’.

And so there she would remain; year on
year and her only reprieve would be via a six- foot box on a mission
of no return.

She was pressed to affirm that Heather
Lydgate Aspinall had been upset by Sandra Milford Cornish who had not
been there.

Well, no, I don’t think so…

Unless the thought of Sandra had forced
Heather to stuff her face with everything edible, showing a catholic
disregard for flavour or texture and washing it down with anything
she could get her hands on of an even remotely alcoholic nature.

Does she always drink like this? the
Registrar at St Aelfric’s had murmured. Amazing – it’s
normally the under-25swho are the hardened booze hounds…Did you tie
her up (loosening the pussy bow) and pour it down her throat?
(laughing).

Oh I think you’ll find, retorted
Terrence, that she was…

And he was off; citing Heather’s
quotes in Maurice Cantor’s Desperate HOUSEwife hatchet-job
on Sandra. The former Ms Milford had driven her student colleague to
a nervous breakdown; paving the way for a lifetime’s servitude at
the counter of successive country Chemists’.

No, she said – I don’t
think it was like that. I think Cantor got it wrong.

Sandra had, naturally, gloated when
Heather’s breakdown had gifted her Darwin Science Prize on a plate
- but she had not caused the breakdown. She had not forced
Heather to trash her bedroom; to devastate her kitchen and to boycott
Finals.

Indeed, judging from Mrs Aspinall’s
recent performance, it was likely - even probable, that the events of
37 years ago were the first manifestation of what had since become a
deep- seated psychological problem associated with food and drink.

Heather had trashed the kitchen and her
own bedroom – what would an analyst make of that?! Would a woman
in command of her own psyche have behaved in such a spectacular
fashion on her first visit to the House of Commons? And where for
that matter, was Mr Aspinall?!!

She did not voice these thoughts, but
the Chief Whip was unaccustomed to contradiction:

Hmm, well, Mrs Cornish – bit of a
disruptive force - some of your old crew at Dorlich …. Mrs Lambton,
Sir Leslie……yourself and dear old Derek – now, now, you really
are MUCH too kind – always making allowances for people! It doesn’t
do you know! Could be viewed as a FAULT…..

Sylvie – yes, coming! (rueful
laugh) I’m so sorry, but I really must fly; Opposition Day Debate
and I doubt we’ll get the numbers….have a think about DW ----- of
course, Billy Grainger would be a very popular choice and really very
smart – excellent candidate; but if you’re serious about a
return we MAY be able….. I’ll call you in a week or so….

And he was gone.

What was required now was the haven of
The Regular Suite and Gissy as confidante, but in the absence of
both, the fridge and a large glass of Chardonnay would suffice.

She did not feel well.

The horrific certainty that Terrence
must KNOW about Pants Ahoy and had been making veiled,
but purposeful, references to it, had induced the symptoms of an
entire menopausal cycle in one go as a hot flush was succeeded by a
cold sweat and back again.

Why on earth would Derek tell anybody,
least of all, the Government Chief Whip that, thirty seven years
ago, he had indulged in drunken and profoundly unsatisfactory,
sexual congress with a woman who, many years later, pitched up in the
work place as a colleague?

And that the uniquely embarrassing romp
had, unbeknownst to the two principles, been conducted in the
presence of a third party – who had herself pitched up, many years
later as the wife ( now discarded) of a Cabinet colleague?

Or that the said party had advertised
the baleful bonk in an article purporting to be about a debate on
Barclay’s Bank, couched in incriminating and salacious
language, in a student magazine?

She finished her drink without tasting
it.

Had Terrence been privy to this
excruciating information during the entire course of her
Parliamentary career? Had he experienced mental flashes of the pants,
so to speak, every time he had reprimanded her for a minor
misdemeanour or refused her request to be appointed to a Bill
Committee?

She thought not. It was equally
discomfiting for Derek, who could scarcely bear to speak to her and
who had avoided her as usual, in The Sceptre Room two days ago.

Why had she been invited to the party
at all?

Why had Terrence phoned today?

He was not a friend; she had never
believed that he esteemed her talents.

But at first he had been pleasant –
and helpful. Her office was spacious; she had been one of the first
of the new intake to be appointed to a Select Committee. Ralph Egg
had written a puffy piece somewhere or other.

Del Kemp had praised her Maiden Speech
– in which she had bid for a super hospital pilot in
Fengrove with the piece de resistance being a cleverly crafted
hint that her Tory predecessor had been personally responsible for an
outbreak of Legionnaire’s disease.

This had led to a barnstorming
performance on Mid-week Medley; the popular television
magazine - style slot - a mix of anecdote, report and debate.

It was rare for a Backbencher to
feature, but she had deputised for Junior Minister, Gretchen Andrew
at short notice and had defended Wendy’s proposed cut in free
school dinners with a passion that had earned her praise from
Terrence at the late vote.

So far, so surprisingly good – and
then treading water for eight years; abandoned to the mercies of
Edgar Smith and his constituency henchmen and sinking as planned,
stone-like, at the election before last.

How did she get from there to
here? (here, sitting solo in a dressing gown, drinking wine
before midday at a cracked table in an unsellable house with
bits and bobs of jobs? ).

Her eye caught a footnote in The
Crier, below the, as yet unread, Ponia’s Picks.

Back With a Bang - Wicks Snuffs Out
Deselection Threat.

It was a late cut ‘n paste from a
News Agency and would certainly be developed in succeeding days - but
the good news was that Gissy had seen off the challenge from Valerie
Pringle! It had gone to the edge (as usual with Gissy) and the
sitting MP had triumphed on the toss of a coin after recorded
votes had produced a dead heat between the candidates.

The bad news was that Gissy’s lover,
Westminster PC Pete, had celebrated the victory by letting off a
few fireworks on the balcony of their apartment; police had been
called and Pete was now being ‘investigated’. In a brief
statement, Gissy had pronounced herself pleased to have
vanquished Pringle and confident that Pete would not face
charges.

Gissy…..

Paul absconding with a tart called
Meriel, two weeks after her election; leaving his trademark slime of
devastation had not been an ideal start to a Parliamentary career.

The news had spread quickly; but
Westminster was not Chudleigh and at Westminster, Paul was nobody.
And he and not she had been the transgressor….

What had Terrence said today? – that
she had always made allowances for people and that it could be
considered a fault?

She recalled an incident shortly after
her television debut; a one to one with Terrence. It was a
Whips’ initiative (quickly dropped) of holding appraisal
interviews with MPs. Everything had gone well; she had settled
in the Chamber and the feed-back from her Select Committee Chair
was good.

But if you’ll take a tip,
Terrence had whispered as she left the office, you’ll choose
your friends carefully…..

Later that evening, she joined Gissy in
the Regular Suite as they waited for the Division Bell and final
votes on the Second Reading of the Defence Bill.

Gissy was bursting with tales from her
first Select Committee trip to Montreal.

Perry Dryesdale; the Shire Counties’
Tory who had opposed the repeal of Section 28 with a speech of the
most graphic sexual content ever to be recorded in Hansard, had
been spotted by the Committee Clerk, entering a gay lap dancing
club! He had begged the Clerk not to inform the Committee Chair (who
was related to his wife) and had spent the remainder of the trip
confined to his room with a stomach bug.

Successive glasses of wine had turned
an amusing anecdote into knicker-wetting hilarity, and as the Monitor
boomed forth with Haydon Groat’s concluding remarks on Polaris,
Terrence Gale peered round the door to summon the troops to vote.

They greeted him with squeals and
whoops. Gissy was practically crying.

He must have thought they were
laughing at him…..

She got through the remainder of the
day – somehow.

The noxious certainty that her entire
Parliamentary career had been pole-axed at the outset because the
Chief Whip thought (wrongly) that she had been let into the secret of
a friend’s abortive non- sexual encounter with him (before she
had met Gissy Wicks) was more unbearable than the persecution she
had endured at the hands of Edgar Smith and the local Party beasts;
worse even than her defeat and subsequent difficulties in making
financial ends meet.

Year on year, she had sat in the office
at re-huffle time, listening to Ida’s consolatory homilies:

In my view, it counts more with the
voters if you’re a good constituency MP - too many of the Ministers
never even visit their own patches!

knowing that she had about as much
chance as a flying penguin of placing a flipper upon even the lowest
rung of the promotional ladder – and watching the likes of the
hapless and ability-challenged Alice Patterson scale the incline from
PPS to Junior Minister, to Minister of State to ----Cabinet.

Alice Patterson….

There, staring from the rogues gallery
of Ponia’s Picks was a mug shot of Alice – to the right of
Haydon Groat and behind Bill Cornish.

Ponia had composed a form sheet
about the refreshed Cabinet’s runners'n'riders – the
select few predicted to, in the words of Elizabeth Windsor to the
Prince of Wales on his marriage to Camilla Parker- Bowles : overcome
Becher’s Brook and the Chair and all kinds of other obstacles
to attain the Holy Grail of political success.

Ainsley Beadle afforded the motley
crew a patina of respectability; the political veteran could have
deputised for Betty Kenward of the late lamented Jennifer’s
Diary in each and every circumstance - a hurricane, a tsunami or
a military coup, bolstered by graded pearls and never a hair astray.

As for Alice, The Crier had
chosen the most unflattering image it could find, begging the
question – where had they found it and in what
circumstances…..?

Patterson, charged by Wendy to lead the
new Department of Consumer Affairs, appeared to be executing a
cross between a wink and a leer to camera and the black roots of her
blonde hair owed more to accident than design.

The deshabillee effect was ill-fitting
for Westminster; perfect for Shepherd’s Market; and entirely in
keeping with the tone of Ponia’s commentary:

Alice Patterson; Wendy Runcible’s
new consumers’ champion, is the first politician to hold a post of
this nature since Shirley Williams carried all before her as Minister
for Consumer Protection. And MPs say the cap fits!

‘Spot on!’ commented a Cabinet
colleague who wished to remain nameless. ‘No-one knows more about
the doctrine of Conspicuous Consumption than Alice!’

Ms Patterson has held the rock-
solid seat of Hegworth Central since bursting onto the national scene
as a candidate in 2001 after trouncing two former MPs and the Leader
of Hegworth District Council at a controversial selection conference.
She is a vocal supporter of her geographical neighbour, Chief Whip
Terrence Gale and a convivial figure on the Westminster scene.

As she smarted from the back story of
her own inglorious career; Alice Patterson’s meteoric rise was
abundantly clear:

Fools rush in where angels fear to
tread.

But Alice had not been a fool. She had
shown exemplary acuity and must have been showing it with commendable
regularity ever since the pre 1997 Election rally at Silvercliffe
when she had adorned the lounge of a rented apartment with vomit
after consuming copious amounts of Mr Weston’s good wine at
a Scottish ceilidh.

She had locked herself in the bathroom
alongside the clothes of Terrence Gale, who had vacated the premises
without them, following his rebuff in the kitchen at the hands of
candidate, Gissy Wicks. .

Gale could not have been certain what,
if anything, Alice Patterson knew about the matter and must have
moved swiftly to disarm and doubtless, disrobe her, in
interests of evading tabloid exposure and preserving his marriage and
career. And a safe seat and Cabinet post in return for favours in
kind was a price that neither of them minded paying.

So far, so clear, she mused, opening a
packet of Mr Kipling’s Cakes, but she was still no wiser
about why she had been invited to the Westminster party of a man who
had loathed her for 37 years; or why a Chief Whip who had been
thrilled to see the back of her – had telephoned, bearing gifts.

But had he?

Terrence Gale had scarcely spoken to
her in The Sceptre Room – although now that she thought about it,
he had certainly glanced her way more than once.

Of course, her eyes had been blinded
by Ben Bex-Oliver…..

Terrence’s call earlier in the day
had been a peculiar mixture of effusiveness and evasion – on the
one hand seeming to assure her that the candidacy of Dorlich West was
hers for the taking - and at the end of the conversation appearing to
resile from that position with praise for Billy Grainger and a tepid
promise to call again.

In the words of Emma Woodhouse:

It was a jumble without taste or
truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?

One thing, however, was not open to
interpretation.

Until about just over a month ago, she
had heard nothing whatsoever from Terrence, Derek or indeed any of
her former Parliamentary colleagues –for nearly ten years!!

There were times when they could have
made their presence felt – not least in the run – up to the
Fengrove Constituency Party’s selection of Macey Cline as her
successor.

Spiteful comments about her had
abounded on Vlad – the most printable being words to the
effect that whatever Cline did, short of being arraigned as a serial
killer in the style of Aileen Wuornos; she must be an
improvement on the former MP, who had shamed the very initials of
the post.

Milder commentary in the same strain
had popped up in the papers with not-so veiled references to her
notoriety as former drinking companion of Radical Raven,
Gissy Wicks with a suggestion that supplies of wine in The
Regular Suite lasted much longer now that Gissy was forced to drink
on her own instead of forming one of the notorious Parliamentary
Glimmer Twins.

Had Gale, Cornish, Beadle, Groat
……indeed any of them , come to her defence?

THEY HAD NOT

So what was different now?

Why was a former Parliamentary pariah
now being courted by all and sundry?

The weasel blandishments of Mike Stubbs
came to mind, not to mention, the
carefully calibrated references to Traynor – even Wendy herself?

They were all singing from the same
hymn sheet and the selection of hymn had mysteriously coincided with
the abandonment of Sandra Milford by her husband Bill Cornish, who
had set up home with gay lover, Clifford Morledge.

The phone was ringing – and had been
for at least a minute.

Vanessa.

She found it hard to concentrate upon
what her daughter was saying; the line was bad and to be honest, her
mind was buzzing with Westminster ---in the way that it had been
when Vanessa had called her at the office, more often than not, about
a school matter – or a friendship crisis – or a new pair of
trainers ---- during her eight year tenure as the MP for Fengrove.

Vanessa was saying something about Paul
and his Will --- and OH GOD -- she had completely forgotten
that her daughter had been invited to the reading of the Will of
Vanessa’s father who was also her own ex-husband. It was bound to
be a horrible and traumatic experience; it was taking place NEXT
WEEK; Vanessa was driving down a few days in advance and had
been contacted by Nicky Jellicoe ( Nicola) asking if she’d
like to meet up?

She attempted to cover for the fact
that she had totally forgotten about the approach of what was sure to
be the most memorable event of her daughter’s life to date.

And that Vanessa would be exposed to
the casual ( and deliberate in Gillian’s case) cruelty of all
Paul’s horrible relatives – not to mention the sanctimonious
Ursula who, as a six-year-old, had angrily insisted that Tiny Tears
did poos as well as wees, whatever the evidence to the
contrary.

She had let Vanessa down and stood, for
the entire world, like Helen Burns on the stool at Lowood in
Jane Eyre with the placard saying Slattern around her
neck.

In her case it would have been the Not
Good Enough Mother...

Well – I’ll call you when I’m
back – if you’re interested….snapped Vanessa and ended the
call.

And as she sat at her cracked glass
table with Mr Kipling’s Cakes; Ponia’s Picks and a wine
glass containing the dregs of her consumed, but untasted, glass of
Chardonnay, the church bells of the nearby St Michael and All
Souls announced the evening service.

She crept into the wheel-backed chair
and remembered the Oxbridge set and Paul ordering her to search for a
missing book.

the history of Ukraine has mostly been a sad one. I have been there twice, both times as election observer, at two of the three elections which took place in 2004. I was in Kyiv first, observing the election in a village outside the city, and the second time in Odessa, a city I am keen to visit again. Those elections produced, in the end, the Orange party, which resulted in much misplaced euphoria. The country's politics has not much improved, if at all, since then. The memories of that country's communities have been systematically erased over time, and it can seem as though the cemeteries are the most living places there. But don't read me on this, read Alexander J. Motyl, a writer and blogger i have recently discovered who is of Ukrainian origin himself. Excellent.

Erased memory is part of the theme of a little collection of stories have written, and which is about to appear. And indeed it touches upon something that Motyl touches upon in the piece I have linked to, in connection with the 20th-century history of Poland and Ukraine, and the role emigration and memory play in taking that history forward. Or something like that. Anyway, more soon on my stories, but do read Motyl.

Friday, 13 July 2012

thanks to CiFWatch for this and other pictures taken inside Gaza. Which the Guardian will never show because they persist in the lie that Gaza is a "concentration camp". Here are some families doing their shopping, in a supermarket, with, you know, stuff on the shelves. Oh and Gaza is ruled by Hamas, who are a bunch of Jew-hating terrorists. Just saying.

and following the previous post, here is an open message from the male accuser in the case. He might have been better advised not to put this message in the public domain, but he has, and I note the ugly dead-trees have been sent it too. btw I don't know the protagonists here, I picked this up from various Facebook friends and online postings, I just thought the response of the Episcopal bishops to this matter was spot on and should be shared.

Erik Campano, the accuser of Ginger Strickland, has sent the following open letter.

Bishop Matthews, Bishop Henderson, and Presiding Bishop KatherineJefferts-Schori: please note that I see in my inbox that there is another decision from the reference panel, but I will not be opening that email for reasons described below. I wish you all PLEASE only the COMPLETE LOVE of CHRIST OUR LORD -- as I wish everyone.

To all my friends and family that I can find to list right now: please publicize the following note, which I have posted on the website of the New York Post and on my Facebook page.

To the Internet:

I do not feel now as I felt when I made that quote. It was immediately after I received the decision, and it was a hasty reaction. I do NOT think it was in the spirit of spiritual reconciliation that I called for. I do not know how I feel now: but I wish to express something more charitable than that comment to the Episcopal Church.

If I have broken any laws, I ask you to point this out to me and take fair legislation against me. Please do not take any illegal or unethical action against me (or anyone else). I have never believed my actions to be illegal, but I may have been unable to judge that, because I am not a legal expert.

I am going, after I post this note, to seek full psychiatric treatment.

I believe I am unstable.

I have asked my family, after I write and post this note on Facebook and the Post website, to physically restrain me from the Internet for one month, or I have been judged by a psychiatrist stabilized. I ask this of everyone. Actions sometimes have unintended consequences, going to the public with this information has produced horrible consequences that I did not intend, and I cannot control. When I made this decision, I believed it to be ethically true. I do not know now.THAT DOES NOT mean, however, that I discourage any sexual misconduct survivors, male or female, to come forward publicly.

If anyone can definitely figure out whether I have done anything ethically wrong, I would like you to point this out to me. I expect to be constantly examinating my conscience over the next month. When I have become stable again, I will do everything I possibly can to right, personally, any wrongs I have done.

When I initiated the complaints against Ginger and Bishop Whalon, I believed that action to be ethically correct. I still do. However, please note that by the Canonical process I was required to make the cases AGAINST them. I did the best I could, and I think these cases are reasonable. I always did my utmost to only speak TRUE facts.However, reasonable people can also make the case FOR them, and I encourage both sides to present the most reasonable cases possible, as seems fit for public dialogue. Ultimately, I do still believe that both of them have violated Title IV of the Episcopal Canons.

Beyond this, I am extremely confused about other questions of right and wrong related to this case.

The Post has copies of these documents. So does, obviously, the Episcopal Church. However, I do not know, legally, if they can be shared fully with you.

There are probably other things I should say here which I do not understand now, and more elegant or less sensationalistic ways of expressing them.

Please repost this letter wherever deemed appropriate.

I wish only GOODNESS and RECONCILIATION for Ginger, Bishop Whalon, the church, and all our brothers and sisters - that is, everyone.

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

an assistant curate of the Episcopal church in New York has been subjected to vile, misogynist and apparently entirely untrue coverage (which I will not reproduce) , after she ended a relationship she was having with a parishioner at her previous church. She was effectively accused too of being a paedophile, although the man she had had a relationship with, who instigated the media coverage, was an adult. As assistant curate she is an office holder in the church, and accountable to her bishop, to whom she made full disclosure. If you are an office holder in an organisation and there is lying shitbag media coverage about you, this (below) is the kind of statement those who are senior in the organisation should make to its members. Usually, they don't. Take heed. Especially those in politics.

July 9, 2012 Dear Sisters and Brothers,We write to express our unqualified support for the Reverend Ginger Strickland, curate at the Church of the Incarnation in Manhattan, over an inaccurate and misleading article which appeared about her in Sunday's New York Post. The article reports the complaint brought against her by Mr. Erik Campano, a person with whom she had a romantic relationship while working as a lay minister at the non-denominational American Church in Paris. In 2011 she broke off the relationship with Mr. Campano and subsequently moved to New York to begin her employ at Incarnation. He then filed a complaint with this diocese stating that he believed that she had violated the church's policies regarding romantic relationships between clergy and parishioners.

The Episcopal Churches in Europe are under the jurisdiction of the Presiding Bishop, and the investigation of this matter was referred to her offices, where it has been conducted in full accord with established church policy. Our own preliminary investigation, though, showed that Mother Strickland had met every canonical obligation in such a relationship by disclosing her friendship with Mr. Campano to her bishop and superiors, and that there was no canonical breach of church policy. We have complete confidence in our sister Ginger, as do the rector and congregation at the Church of the Incarnation. She is an able priest of good standing, and a person we believe to be of exemplary character. She did not deserve to have this story reported as it was, and we deeply regret the embarrassment this has caused her. We ask the prayers of this diocese for her and assure you of our complete support for her and her continued ministry in the Diocese of New York.

Read, and learn.

Update: Ginger Strickland has been fully exonerated by a range of church investigations. Now will the media SHUT UP.

Monday, 9 July 2012

there was a bit of a do in Reading a few days ago, for soldiers returning from Afghanistan. A Homecoming Parade, held at Brock Barracks. Very dignified and fitting it was too, I am told by some who were there. Many dignitaries, the Mayor of Reading in pride of position, but many other mayors and important people in the VIP enclosure. And a very good thing too, say I. I do not believe councillors were invited qua councillors unless they had a particular connection to the military. But what's this? A swish car hums to a halt, and out leaps Derek Plews, former spinner for the military, and now Head of Communications at Reading Borough Council. The charming Mrs Plews is at his side! They hustle their way into the VIP enclosure, prompting some of the more elderly be-chained dignitaries to ask each other, "Who is this bespectacled northern oik?" The more tuned-in of the dignitaries spot the hunched figure being smuggled in between the two Plews (singly would they each be a Plew?) out of lens-reach of the snapping paparazzi, and once in the enclosure that figure draws itself up to its full height, shakes out its poodle perm in the watery sunlight, and commences a rousing discourse, the returning heroes forgotten. Yes! Councillor Josephine Lovelock is amongst us! Three soldiers faint, but the speech continues. A veil must, from charity, be drawn over what follows.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

Here we have the delightful Janet Gavin, sacked schoolmarm with too much time on her hands, telling us how marvellous a park and ride at Palmer Park would be. Not just marvellous, but essential. No other spare land in the borough, she trills. It must be done, she chirps. Going to happen, she squeals.

And this is what the even more delightful Basher has to say (at least he can spell "micro" - Jannie-babes seems to think it has no "r" - where is the quality control with these people? Have they put Howarth in charge of it?)

I am pleased to be able to tell you that RBC has abandoned its attempts to introduce a Micro Park and Ride at Palmer Park and Clayfield Copse in Caversham.The first signs that the Council was prepared to drop the plan started coming last week, however life is never certain and it was not until it was confirmed could we relax.Well done everyone who campaigned. I will post more details when I have had time to read the Council papers from yesterdays full Council meeting.

Although he can't do apostrophes, as we see. My rates are very reasonable, you grammar-challenged folk clearly do need some help. Park Ward Labour party campaigned, it seems, against this Labour plan. Which has now disappeared. And never existed. Meanwhile, Cllr Gavin tweets to inform us that she is in the business-class lounge on her way into exile.

Saturday, 7 July 2012

is what is being used by the LibDems here. The Tory candidate they are fighting is gay, and they use the words "it's a straight fight". Which of course is perfectly innocent language, hein? No. Dog whistle is a very simple thing. You use plain language about your opponent, and it contains a code word or words which indicate that you are contrasting your party's candidate with the other one by saying that person is gay, or black, or otherwise "other", and your candidate is not. It could be a number of things. Typically it is sexuality or race. Reading Labour has form on this too, as recently as this year's local elections, remember? Reading Labour's white girl is "one of us", unlike the Tory candidate, who was born in Pakistan.

Friday, 6 July 2012

would be, I suppose, the title in English of this book, Le Porte-Monnaie, by Ali Mansour. Although if I were translating it I would probably choose another title. I cannot find that it has been translated into English, but it should be. If anyone's listening out there, me! I'll do it! Ali Mansour is Tunisian, the son of a Tunis docker, and he now lives in Strasbourg. I read his book because it is the French book our new book group is going to talk about in September. I had not heard of it, or him, before. It is a wonderful book. Set in the Tunisia of Ben-Ali, now mercifully departed, its hero is a wise child, the 12-year-old Souleymane, and its heart is a mystery. Where did the purse of money come from? What did Souleymane's mother do when she left him alone? Why did the police chief play out the cruel piece of theatre he did? Because he could? Or for darker reasons? I could see this as a film - reading it I could smell the spices and harissa and the rain on the pavements. It is a study in corruption and redemption and revenge. If you can read French read it immediately. btw the French is simple - I could read it easily with no dictionary and that is certainly not true of everything I read in French.

It is a matter of great regret that Lord Sacks has chosen to make a statement in his official capacity opposing the right of gay and lesbian men and women to marry. Even if same-sex marriage is contrary to Jewish law, it does not compromise the position of Orthodox Jews to let others marry as they wish. Lord Sacks has sought to influence how the generality of the population leads its life.

Further, and contrary to the submissions of the Beth Din, the change in the law will not force religious officers to officiate same-sex marriages against their wish. The law will apply only to secular ceremonies of marriage over which, by necessary definition, religious officers do not preside.

Jewish law may prohibit same-sex relations and among those Jews who consider themselves bound by Jewish law it operates as a restraint on how they may otherwise live their lives. But Jewish law can play no part in a modern secular society in restricting the lives of non-Jews - and Jews - who do not accept its restraints. The proper response to the consultation should have been: it is not our proper business to comment. Speaking when silence is required is no virtue.

Seems spot on to me. If you operate within a theology that binds some of the choices in how you live your life, as Orthodox (and many other) Jews do, then that is your choice, Of course, if you live in a society in which you are not allowed to choose (Iran and many others) that is a whole different matter. But no canon law of any faith can or should attempt to regulate the lives of those who are not of that faith, still less the activities of secular state bodies. If you practise a faith then you accept the restraints it may place upon your activity and behaviour. My nephew is a member of a Catholic lay order which requires celibacy. That is one kind of restraint, which he has chosen. In email conversation with a noted Catholic theologian of my acquaintance (OK, it was my brother) he described himself as "taking very seriously" the disciplines and dictates of the Catholic Church over the centuries. Nobody made him do that. Unless, you may say, God made him do it.

My point here is not a theological one. I am not qualified, nor would I wish, to debate theology. My point is that the dictates of faith rub up against secular laws quite often in the "free" Western societies, and there is no need for them to. Faith groups should just leave it alone. Where there is an established church it gets a bit more problematic, as in England. But I am against the established church. And I am, these days, a practising Anglican, and I wish, wish, wish the Anglican Communion would leave it alone too.

Monday, 2 July 2012

Her family name was Johnson, and it was said that her family were connected with a family both rich and louche - the Rollwrights of Ebury Street Westminster. There was a remembered scene in which two aunts, or maybe older cousins, who had left the family home and who wore make-up and furs (this would be about 1904) and who were said to be actresses, appeared at a family occasion: there was an altercation, and rings were pulled off and thrown into the fireplace, possibly because of an inheritance. This memory is as told to me by my grandmother, also Beatrice Mead, who witnessed something like this as a small child. The elder Beatrice, as has been said, came from a family which had (perhaps) fallen on hard times. She married a man named Mead, who owned, it was said, several pubs in south London. Quite soon they had a son, George, but after that the babies, who arrived annually, turned blue and died within hours of birth. It is likely that Beatrice was blood group rhesus negative, so the first child was rhesus positive and the antibodies in her blood killed the later ones. At that time nobody knew about this. A few years later another child was born and survived, named Beatrice too. She was my maternal grandmother, and was rhesus negative, which is presumably why she survived. Later, fourteen years later, a sister, Doris, known as Doll, and later still a brother, Fred.

Mr Mead, my great-grandfather, drank away the money and lost the pubs, it was said. He did not live to a great age. Beatrice Mead, his widow, known as Gran, became the matriarch of the family, and through the 1920s and 30s, as the men of the family joined the army, came back, lost their jobs, found new ones and lost them again in the Depression, it was to her house they came. Everyone was taken in, and had a place to stay. Children slept on window sills and underneath curtains: young men ironed shirts in the sitting-room; cousins formed alliances and told stories on Saturday nights as the men drank light ale and the older ones played cards. The younger Beatrice, always known as Sissy to her family, married Leonard Thomas, of a Welsh family, whose brothers were lay preachers. They were my maternal grandparents. They had four children. The firstborn, Lenny, died at the age of four from complications of mastitis. Two years later their first daughter, Patricia, was born, in 1928, followed by Betty in 1930 and Tony in 1936. All four looked exactly like their father. Patricia was my mother, born in south London and married to my father, John Griffiths, in north-west London in 1952. I was born in 1954, my brother Paul in 1955 and my sister Sara in 1959, all of us in South Ruislip, north-west London.

Beatrice Mead the younger (who was Mrs Thomas by then of course), known to us as Granny, lived a walk away when we were small and was often in our house. We loved her very much. She had fierce blue eyes and a fighting spirit that she used in defence of her family her whole life - although she could be critical of her grandchildren, no-one else was allowed to be. She was bemused by the marriage of her youngest and favourite child, Tony, to a Norwegian woman, my Auntie Inger, a laughing blue-eyed Scandinavian, and his departure to live in Norway in 1962, where he remains. They had one child, Stephen, my youngest cousin, who is the only blond in my maternal family.

Beatrice senior, our Gran, lived with Granny at the time of my earliest memories. I was afraid of her. I was her eldest great-grandchild, and so should have been best placed to understand, but I didn't really. Gran's behaviour was strange. She growled and muttered. One time she stood between us cousins and the television we were watching and said "These children and their filthy talk, they've got to get out!" I knew our talk wasn't filthy, but I didn't know what to say. The others kept their eyes firmly on the television screen. In those days nobody talked about dementia. I remember my father using the words "going senile". Then, when I was about seven, Granny had a new flat, and she and Grandad were there. We used to love going to visit them. We had Christmas there more than once. Later, Granny came to live with us, after Grandad died. But Gran died only some years after that, when I was thirteen. She was ninety-six. And I found out only recently that, probably soon after the "filthy talk" incident, Gran had been "put away". Granny went to visit her every week, sometimes accompanied by my mother. Aunt Doll, her younger daughter, would not go, after the first time, the place was horrible, she said. And, it seems, it was horrible.

I remember Gran from when I was little, and I remember when she died, when I was thirteen, but I had, and have, no memory of her in the intervening years, the ones when she was put away, She was at Granny's house, then she wasn't.